Flora was pretty and gay, qualities which in a young girl blind the eyes of beholders to many drawbacks. Meriel was quite resigned to be blinded herself, but some two or three years after the two girls had left school she heard with amazement that Flora was engaged to be married to Geoffrey Sterne, one of the most prominent _litterateurs_ of the day.

Geoffrey Sterne and--Flora! How was it that the cleverest of men so often chose weak, clinging women as companions for life? It seemed to Meriel inconceivable that this giant among men should have given his love to an animated doll; but Flora wrote gushing accounts of her fiance's devotion, and declared that she was as happy as the day was long. It seemed to Meriel that she must indeed be the happiest of women!

Circ.u.mstances prevented Mend's presence at the wedding, and for the next five years she did not see her friend. A child was born and died; rumour reported that Sterne was working incessantly at a work which was to be the _magnum opus_ of his life; it was said also that his wife was in delicate health, and had abandoned the dissipations of town. Then at the end of the five years came an invitation in Flora's handwriting.

Meriel was not to be vexed with her for being silent for so long; she had always _intended_ to write, simply dreadful how many things were left undone! Really and truly, she had never forgotten the dear old days. Would Meriel come down and pay her a nice long visit? Geoffrey liked to have friends staying in the house; he thought Flora was too much alone; but some visitors were such a nuisance--always poking about.

Meriel was not like that--she was always a dear old thing. Would Thursday suit? The 3:13. The car should be waiting at the station.

Flora sent heaps of love...

Meriel accepted the invitation without hesitation; she was without near relations, living on narrow means, and her life was so bare that she was thankful of the mere change of scene. She liked the sound of "the car"; most of all she longed to meet Geoffrey Sterne, and see him in the intimacy of his home.

Flora was waiting at the station when her friend arrived; and at the sight of her face came Meriel's first disillusionment. This was not the companion of old; this was a strange woman with whom she had no acquaintance. The once delicate face had lost its contour, the features were blurred and coa.r.s.ened: out of the blue eyes peered a furtive soul.

Meriel felt a presage of trouble at the sight of that ravaged face.

A week's stay at the house revealed two eloquent facts. Flora was afraid of her husband, but she loved him still, and craved for his approval. Out of his presence she was nervous, and irritable, possessed by a demon of restlessness which made it impossible for her to attend to the same thing for two minutes together; but let Sterne enter the room, and all the poor forces of her nature were rallied to appear calm and at ease.

Meriel saw through these efforts with a woman's intuition; later on with a woman's sympathy, for she knew that Geoffrey Sterne no longer loved his wife. He was kindly, chivalrous, attentive; with the utmost of his powers he fulfilled his duty, but there was no spark of that divine flame which would have turned duty into joy. To have gained the love of such a man, and then--to have lost it! Meriel found herself reversing her former decision. She had believed Flora Sterne to be the happiest of women. She now knew her to be the most unfortunate.

There was trouble in the air--a trouble nebulous and vague, yet real enough to chill the blood. The cloud of coming disaster settled down more and more heavily over the household. There came a night when the storm broke.

Sterne had been away all day, and in his absence his wife's restlessness took an acute turn. She wandered about the house rejecting irritably all offers of help, and finally shut herself up in her own rooms, leaving Meriel a prey to anxiety. What was the reason of Flora's strange behaviour? Was it a pure matter of nerves, or was there in truth some hidden sorrow preying upon her mind, and driving her hither and thither in search of oblivion? What sorrow could Flora have? Grief over the death of her child had long since faded into a placid conclusion that all was for the best. It had been a dear little thing, but children were a tie... She was glad there had been no other... For the rest, life had brought her the most luxurious of homes, the most attentive of husbands, and if that attention was not induced by the highest motive, Meriel doubted if the dulled mind grasped the lack.

What sorrow, then, could Flora have?

The afternoon wore slowly away, until the hour approached when Sterne would return, when a feeling of responsibility drove Meriel to follow Flora to her boudoir. She did not wish Geoffrey to return to find his wife suffering and alone.

The room was darkened, so that it was impossible to see distinctly, but the sound of a low moan reached her ears, and p.r.o.ne on the sofa lay Flora, her face sunk deep in the piled-up cushions.

Meriel spoke, but there was no reply; she knelt down and pressed the cushion from the hidden face, but the eyes remained closed, the jaw fixed and fallen. Poor Flora! Her sufferings had been real enough, since in the end they had culminated in this heavy swoon. Meriel threw open windows, found water and smelling salts, and unloosed the clothing round the neck. In the midst of her efforts Sterne entered, and with quick glance took in the situation. He brought a flask of brandy from his room, and from time to time inserted a few drops within the parted lips. But Flora did not revive. She moaned and stirred, but her eyes remained closed. She showed no consciousness of their presence. In hot haste a doctor was summoned; he came, and stood gazing grimly down at the still figure.

"We did everything we could think of before sending for you," Sterne explained. "Fanned her, sponged her head, gave her brandy--"

The doctor looked at him--a terrible look.

"_Brandy_!" he repeated deeply. "Man, have you no eyes? What have you been about to allow her to come to this pa.s.s? She is not faint. She is drunk!"

Flora's remorse was a pitiful thing. For years she had been playing with fire, but the knowledge of the depths to which she had fallen filled her with shame and fear. For days together she refused to see her husband, but from the first moment of consciousness she clung with a childish desperation to the friend of her youth.

"Don't leave me! Don't go away! I can't face it alone. Oh, Meriel, stay and help me to bear it. I'm afraid to be left alone with Geoffrey.

He will say nothing--he'll go on being kind, but it will be in his mind.--I shall see it in his eyes... I've disgraced him, and I'm afraid--I'm afraid of the future! ... Oh, Meriel, stay and help me!"

That night, walking in the darkening garden, Meriel told Sterne of his wife's desire, and added a few simple words.

"If you wish it, too, I will stay," she said. "I have no home ties, and can extend my visit as long as it suits you. But I must have your approval. If you would prefer a regular attendant--"

His face twitched with emotion.

"I should--_abhor_ it!" he said tensely. "If you could stay, it would be a G.o.dsend, but it seems too great a sacrifice... We have no right to ask it. Why should you give up so much?"

"I have so little to give up," Meriel said. She looked into Sterne's face with a pathetic attempt at a smile. "I am a superfluous woman.

n.o.body needs me, and all my life I have longed to be needed. If I can be of use here, I'd rather stay than go anywhere on earth."

"G.o.d bless you!" he said, and gripped her hand.

That was the signing of the agreement which resulted in four years of ceaseless service. At the beginning Meriel had contemplated a stay of a few months; but with every week that pa.s.sed she seemed more firmly riveted in her post. After each breakdown, Flora's dread of being alone with her husband increased in violence, while he shrank more sensitively from the services of a hireling. They needed her, and she stayed on and on, at first provisionally; later, as a matter of course.

From the beginning Sterne had little hope of his wife's reformation, for he realised that her weakness was of several years' growth, and that the inherent instability of her character unfitted her for the prolonged struggle which lay ahead. As a matter of fact, after the first pa.s.sion of remorse had worn itself out, the whole of Flora's energies were expended in the attempt to deceive her companions, and to discover secret methods of indulging her craving. The history of those four years was one of recurrent disappointment. The last remnant of beauty died out of Flora's face; Sterne's dark hair was streaked with grey, Mend's features were fined to a delicate sharpness; her eyes had the pathetic wistfulness of a dumb animal. From the first moment of meeting her heart had gone out to Geoffrey Sterne; before she had been three months under his roof she loved him with an absorbing pa.s.sion, and for four long years she had stood by, watching his torture, holding her love in check. Surely no man and woman were ever thrown together in more intimate relationship. Night after night they wrestled together against the demon which destroyed their peace; week after week, month after month, they planned and consulted, toiled and failed, hoped and sorrowed,--together, always together; virtually alone, yet always with that pitiful presence holding them apart.

Sterne was as chivalrous to his friend as to his wife. Never by look or deed did he pa.s.s the borders of friendship. With one part of her nature Meriel was thankful for the fact. It would have marred her admiration of the man's character if he had made love to the woman who was ministering to his wife. With another part of her nature she longed fiercely, hungrily, to feel the touch of his lips, the grasp of his arms. There were times when she was shaken with envy of the poor creature who still claimed his tenderness and his care, but she never deluded herself that Sterne returned her love. It seemed to her that her own near a.s.sociation with the tragedy of his life must in itself prevent such a possibility. In years to come, when poor Flora had found her rest, Sterne might meet some sweet woman who lived in the sunshine, and find happiness with her. "He will forget, and be comforted. He will love her the more for all he has suffered." Meriel felt an anguish of envy for that other woman who would enjoy the happiness denied to herself, a bitter rebellion against her own fate.

"I have given my youth, my strength, my soul--and what have I gained in return? Emptiness and suffering!" she cried fiercely. Then added, with a sombre triumph, "But she can never help him as I have helped! He can never need her as he has needed me!"

The end of the four years found the three embarked for India to try the effect of "suggestion" under a famous professor of the East. It was a forlorn chance, as it was doubtful if Flora retained enough brain power to respond to the treatment; but something was hoped from the change of scene and the healthful effects of the voyage.

Meriel welcomed the change with relief. Flora's increasing disability had of late thrown her husband and friend into what was practically a prolonged _tete-a-tete_, and the strain of constant self-repression had grown beyond endurance. In the turmoil of travelling such close intimacy would be impossible, and her own tired nerves would be refreshed.

For the first fortnight all went well. The Bay was smooth, the Mediterranean blue and smiling; even Flora herself was roused to a feeble admiration. She was so quiet and amenable that Meriel was able to leave her for hours together in the charge of her maid, while she herself lay on a deck chair, luxuriating in the peace and beauty of the scene. Sometimes Sterne would sit by her side, and they would talk together,--brief, disconnected fragments of talk, interrupted by intervals of silence. They spoke of happier days; of their youth, their dreams and ambitions, the glowing optimism of early hopes.

Sterne had started his career with the finest ambition which a writer can know: a pa.s.sing popularity would not satisfy him, money was regarded merely as a means to live; his aim was to write words which should endure after he himself was laid to rest, and to that aim he had held fast, despite all the trials and discouragements of his life. To him, as to every writer, came the realisation that his power to help and uplift was measured by his own suffering. His readers were enriched by his poverty. There were times when the knowledge soothed, times again when the natural man rose in revolt, and demanded bread for his own soul.

"You tell me that I have succeeded," he said bitterly to Meriel; "but I have never tasted the savour of success. I have no child to inherit my name, and my wife does not care--even in the early days she cared nothing for my work. Never in her life has she read an article of mine from beginning to end. When I told her of a fresh commission she asked always--'How much will it be?' After the first year I never mentioned my work. The poorest clerk hurrying home to tell his wife of a ten-pound rise, feeling sure of her sympathy and understanding, is richer than I. He _has_ his reward!"

Meriel found courage to ask a question which had long hovered on her lips.

"You were so very different. At school Flora never pretended to be intellectual. Why did you ever--"

"Marry her?" his face softened, he drew a retrospective sigh. "I loved her, Meriel! That was the reason. She was young, and sweet, and trustful, and when a pretty girl steals into a man's heart he does not stop to inquire into her brain powers. I have reproached myself because the glamour so soon faded, but I am thankful to remember that it was an honest marriage; I loved her truly, and she loved me. My poor Flora! I believe she does still. It's very pitiful."

Meriel turned her head so that he should not see her face. The tenderness of his tone was painful to her, the thought of those early days of married love tortured her heart. The world seemed to her a cruel place, where men and women were tried beyond their strength.

"At least you have had something!" she told him wistfully. "Your golden time pa.s.sed quickly, but you had the experience. You are a man, and to men work comes first. You can lose yourself in it, forget your disappointments, and escape to a new world. And you have made a great reputation. Men praise you, admire you, are helped by you. Doesn't _that_ help?"

"I wonder," he said vaguely. "I wonder!"

They sat in silence gazing at the waste of waters sparkling in the noonday sun. When after some moments he spoke again, it was apparently to introduce a new topic.

"What do you feel about colour, Meriel? Does it speak to you? Look at those great waves today! ... The blue of them, the deepest, truest blue that it is possible to conceive, and the shafts of green, cutting across the blue, and the purple shadows, and above all, the foamy torrent of white! Things that one has done oneself are so poor, so unsatisfying; but the big things last. The sea comforts me, Meriel; the bigness of it, the beauty of it. Why should we fret, and be troubled? It will pa.s.s! Everything pa.s.ses. We have only to be faithful; to stick to our posts, and look ahead!"

But Meriel was a woman, with a woman's heart that refused to find comfort in philosophy. She looked at the changeful sea, but the very beauty of it brought a heavier weight, for she was one of the tender souls who are dependent on companionship for her joys. If Sterne had loved her, and had been free to love, she would have entered into his joy in Nature with ready understanding, but she was suffering from an intolerable loneliness of spirit, to which the glory of the scene around added the last touch of bitterness.

"It doesn't comfort me," she said. "I need something nearer; more personal; something of my own. You have suffered, but you have also enjoyed. It is easier to be resigned when you have possessed, even if the possessions have had to go. If you haven't had _all_ that you asked of life, at least you have had a great deal. Some of us have nothing!"

He looked at her as she gazed wistfully into s.p.a.ce, a woman aged before her time, with a sweet sad face, worn with the burden of his own sorrows.

"What did you ask?" he inquired softly.

"I asked for Happiness," Meriel said, and turned her eyes on him with a pitiful smile.

There was a long silence before he answered, but when he spoke his voice was tremulous with feeling.

"Ah, Meriel!" he cried; "and we have given you Duty! ... It's a cold thing to fill a woman's heart... I've reproached myself a thousand times.--I should not have allowed you to sacrifice yourself.--It must not go on!"